Extraterrestrial Highway
by Deanadelyon
Summary: AU, inspired by the Roswell legends. When a Vulcan exploratory vessel crashes to Earth, Commander S. T. Spock is perhaps the lone survivor. Taken to the mysterious Laboratory 375 for experimentation, he is treated badly and left to die. He is soon rescued by a compassionate doctor and a brilliant young agent, and must find a way to exist in this strange new world.


**A/N: First trek into 'Trek! AU, and likely eventual K/S. Beta-free; please excuse any typos (unless they're really atrocious. Then tell me!)**

**Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, names, and scenarios are being used without profit for entertainment purposes only. Any resemblance or any other characters or places, to real people or places, is completely unintentional and coincidental.**

**Rated for allusions to torture, language, and other adult themes.**

**And so we begin.**

.~*~.

His body hurt.

This was all he knew of his own condition. His ribs were certainly bruised, and his heartbeat, though steady, was painful: an abused muscle, working through the strain. His lungs wheezed with each breath. His fingers could scarcely twitch, sore and, he was sure, crusted in blood.

As he lay there, in the dark, S'chn T'gai Spock, Commander of the Vulcan starship Aborau, _remembered_.

_The Aborau had been an exploratory vessel, made to skim the atmospheres of targeted planets and collect data from the surface. Such assignments were typically conducted quickly, efficiently, and completely uneventfully. The crews of such vessels were always well-versed in emergency procedures; however, accidents were extraordinarily rare, and no theoretical knowledge could quite prepare them for the unexpected._

_The flight over the planet designated YEL III had been textbook-perfect. All data collected had been stored immediately, not a single chip corrupted, not one line of information lost. The vessel had remained largely undetected by the planet's inhabitants, was completely invisible to their tracking instruments. The crew had had no reason to suspect that anything was wrong._

_The ship was over an ocean—an almost obscene pool of water, to the desert people aboard—when they received clearance to return to space. The ship was utilizing a new type of engine, the Ascension III, programmed to increase the speed at which a vessel could escape a planet's atmosphere by nearly 60%._

_The Ascension II failed._

_It not only failed, but it fell apart. The great engines had separated completely from the ship, falling to the surface of YEL III and leaving the Aborau destined to crash._

_The ship had emergency pods, more than enough for the small crew. Spock believed that a maximum of six members had made it aboard a pod before the Aborau itself began to come apart._

A door slammed in the distance, and Spock's eyes opened immediately. His ears curved themselves slightly in the direction of the noise; he held perfectly still, hands clenched at his sides, tensed in preparation for whoever was coming.

Ten seconds passed. Twenty. A half a minute. In the distance, another door opened and shut; Spock was fairly sure that this was the building's exit. He released the breath he'd been holding, and closed his eyes once again.

He had known fear only once in his life, and even then, the fear had been honorable. He had been young, and the danger was in the elements: the heat of the desert, wild predators, dehydration. Now, however…

_Spock did not know how he had come here. He had utilized an escape hatch just before the ship had crashed, and presumed that the impact upon the ground had left him unconscious. He had awoken to find himself immobile. Initially, he had feared paralysis; the reality bode worse. _

_Spock was completely nude. His arms and legs were strapped to a hard surface, presumably metal of some kind; he lay flat on his back, with a fifth strap snug around his neck, preventing him from raising his head; the chafing of the fabric kept him from turning from the bright, greenish lights above._

_The air was cold, far colder than even the coolest nights on Vulcan; Spock could hear the low hum of a fan, and beyond that, footsteps._

_His heart pounded, so hard and so fast that he was sure an observer could see it right through his skin. The footsteps grew closer, a door opened, and then they were above him._

_Medical professionals, or scientists, he thought. They appeared Vulcanoid in form; their faces were obscured by white masks, their bodies draped in white clothing, the tops of their heads obscured by protective material of some kind. They spoke to each other, quickly, hushed, in a rhythmic, oddly melodic language that Spock could not understand. One—a deep voice, perhaps a male—spoke above the rest, and gestured at something Spock could not see. _

_A moment later, Spock felt something thin and blunt jab into his side; he was unable to contain a gasp, and the beings around him froze. The one who had spoken earlier said something, nearly shouted it, enthusiastic and _gleeful,_ and Spock listened as the group set into motion. He could hear metal tinkling, a rumble that he assumed was a wheeled object, a low, mechanical hum, the voices, the _voices, _louder and louder…_

_The following hours were hazy in his mind, scrambled; he remembered _pain_, though, remembered hoping for death. Hoping that they were killing him, because there was no part of his body that was not being prodded or pinched or _cut—

The overhead light turned on, and Spock cringed. The door opened, and footsteps drew closer, until the creature stood directly in Spock's line of sight.

Spock had never seen one of the creatures' faces before; this one was uncovered. It was masculine in appearance, by Vulcan standards; its hair was dark and short, and its eyes were brown. Its skin was strange: Spock was accustomed to the smooth skin texture and soft, pale green tone of his people. This creature's skin was warm brown, and appeared slightly rough.

It stared at him for a moment, before its eyes narrowed, and its flat brows were drew together.

It said something to him, and Spock did not recognize the voice, still did not understand the words. The creature's eyebrows came closer together, as its eyes widened; it appeared almost frantic. Its eyes flit across Spock's body, and returned to look directly into Spock's face.

It repeated its words, slowly now: its voice was rough, the accent distinguishable by drawn-out vowels and clipped consonants. The creature stared at him expectantly; Spock opened his mouth to speak, to make _some _sound, but nothing emerged. His observer's eyes tightened, and he ducked out of sight; it returned a moment later, and held a small tube to Spock's mouth.

Weak, and disinclined to resist, Spock sucked at the tube; a stream of what tasted like clean, pure water washed over his tongue, and down his throat. He groaned, and some part of him was mortified at this display of need, but he was too far gone to take notice. Too soon, the water was taken away, and Spock gasped, wanting it _back—_

And it was given. He sucked greedily, his body absorbing the water almost before it reached his stomach, desperate for the moisture.

Eventually, he drank his fill, and the tube was removed from his mouth. The creature returned to his field of vision. Its eyes held his for a moment, and it thinned its lips before it spoke.

Though the words were meaningless, the tone spoke of something like reassurance; the creature held eye contact for a short time, and walked away. The lights were turned off slowly, one-by-one, and the door was closed.

.~*~.

Upon leaving Room 37, Leonard McCoy walked to the washroom and vomited into the sink.

He had been told that the creature in that room would be dead, or nearly so. He had been told that it had sustained damages from an apparent crash landing, that it showed no sign of intelligence, that it was, for all purposes, brain dead before it had made it to the lab.

He rinsed the sink, splashed his face with cold water, but could still see that body in his mind. Humanoid, tall, strong; it had the body of a dancer, or a martial artist. He could imagine the creature fighting, each movement fluid and measured, its entire body a weapon.

Now it lay there, strapped down and brutalized, dehydrated, _terrified. _Those eyes—overlarge, very dark—had looked at him, not with the blind rage of an animal, but the terrified comprehension of a human.

McCoy gagged, spitting more bile into the sink. The alien's body was a mess, covered in green bruises, scattered with a sickly black substance that he was sure was congealed blood. Its hands were swollen, and its ribs were sucked inward with each breath, as though the expansion of its lungs would be to much to bear.

Its _breathing. _McCoy shuddered as he remembered that horrible, wet wheeze… and the way the creature had drunk so desperately, as though it would never find water again…

When he had taken this position as Resident Extraterrestrial Consultant at Laboratory 375, McCoy was only twenty years old, a brilliant pre-med student from Georgia. After a drunken night searching for UFOs with his roommate, McCoy had written an article on extraterrestrial life, which soon attracted the attention of Doctor Nero Romulus. Romulus had invited him for an interview, and McCoy was quickly welcomed to the team.

Seven years had passed, and McCoy's idealistic vision of a laboratory dedicated to learning about extraterrestrial life, about expanding human knowledge and the sharing of information with cultures from faraway galaxies had crumbled long ago.

L-375 was little more than a butcher shop. Any creature brought through the doors was experimented upon, autopsied, studied. McCoy had taken some comfort in the knowledge that these specimens were always dead upon arrival. Now, however…

McCoy leaned against the wall, and dragged his palms over his eyes. He had seen horribly mutilated bodies, had smelled the decay of these organisms, had watched as they were dismembered and preserved, piece by piece, in jars to be kept in the storage room, deep underground. Never before had he seen one _alive_, and the _wisdom _in this alien's eyes…

He briefly considered confronting Nero, demanding to know what had happened, why this creature was alive. The thought was dismissed immediately. If he told Nero, then what? The poor creature would be killed immediately, or worse, left to starve, to dehydrate.

McCoy left the washroom, and returned to the door of Room 37. He stared through the window, watched the alien's abdomen rise with each breath. As he studied it, the answer bloomed in his mind.

He had wanted to become a doctor in order to save people. The roommate with whom he had gone UFO-watching?

Well, he'd become an FBI agent for the same reason.

.~*~.

When Jim Kirk's phone rang at 1:30 in the morning, he tried very hard to convince his brain that it was part of a dream.

Failing that, he told himself that whoever had died would still be dead once the sun rose.

"Jimmy," Gaila murmured, her face pressed into the pillow next to his, "If you don't answer that goddamn phone, I'm going to throw it out the window."

Jim shot her a nasty look—satisfying, even if she didn't see it—and reached over to his nightstand, picked up the phone, and checked the caller ID.

"Bones," he said aloud; Gaila didn't comment. He shrugged, and pressed a button to accept the call.

"Kirk."

"Jim, it's Len."

"Bonsey the Mole, how are ya doing? Lost track of the cycle of the sun?"

"Jim, stop." There was something urgent and almost _scared _in Bones' voice. Jim frowned, and sat up.

"What is it?"

"It's… there's a work problem, Jim." Jim froze for a moment, then swung his legs over the side of the bed and moved to the hall.

"Bones, what's going on?"

"There's a… specimen, Jim, but it's—he's—Jim, it's _alive._"

"_Alive?_" Jim hissed, "What do you mean, _alive?"_

"Conscious, humanoid, apparently sentient. Jim, they…" Jim swallowed as Bones' voice trailed off. He had _never _ heard his friend sound like this.

"They what?"

"Jim, they were going to kill him. They thought they had." Jim fell back against the wall, and closed his eyes.

"What are you asking me to do, Bones?" He heard Bones take a breath, and then nothing. "Bones?"

"Jim, we gotta help him. Get him out of there, get him—"

"Get him _where?_" Jim demanded. "What could we possibly do with an _alien_, Bones, what do you think is gonna _happen _when people see a—a bug-eyed green man walking around? Hmm? Where do you think he'll end up?"

A pause. "I mean… Jim, he's only a _little _green. And his eyes aren't that buggy."

Jim clenched his jaw. "This—I—Bones…"

"Jim, just… look at him. Come down here. I'll sneak you in, and you can… you can meet him, and we'll go from there. Okay?" Jim took a breath.

"Yeah," he said, tugging at his hair with his free hand. "Alright. I'll be there in fifteen."

.~*~.

Since meeting Leonard McCoy when he was seventeen years old, Jim had wondered what sort of horror he had inflicted upon the world in a past life.

He had, upon reflection, been a fairly normal kid. A few years ahead, academically, bumped forward twice. But otherwise normal: no crazy beliefs, no paranormal mumbo-jumbo. And then _Bones _had happened, the sophomore med student, and it all went to shit.

He sighed, and turned off his headlights when he caught the glow of the lab. At least nothing was ever boring.

He had snuck into the labs before. Desperate to see the preserved specimens, Jim had spent months pestering Bones before they had found a forgotten back route onto the property.

Forgotten, but not simple. Jim had to show up well before the sun, and re-dig the hole under the old fence. He refilled it—loosely, but smoothed across the surface—before leaving, and hadn't been caught yet.

If he _was _caught… well, that would be a mess. For everyone. For the rest of their lives.

"No such thing," Jim reminded himself as he jogged to the hole, "As no-win scenarios."

Bones met him at the southern door of building G, their typical meeting place for such rendezvous. Bones ushered him in, and the pair hurried through the halls, down four flights of stairs, in complete silence.

The idea of seeing a live extraterrestrial, Jim had to admit, was a seductive one. He tried to imagine it: a green creature, humanoid, but with two extra arms, and long, glowing appendages, and—

Bones came to an abrupt stop, and Jim nearly fell over him.

"_Jesus, _Bones, warn a guy—" Bones turned and pressed a finger to his lips, eyes livid. _Don't make one. Damn. Noise. _Jim grinned, and Bones rolled his eyes before pushing the door open.

Jim hurried forward, expecting to see something scaly, or _feathered_, or—

He froze, and his breath caught in his chest.

The creature on the table—it was _human_. They were conducting _human testing? _

Jim walked closer, and his jaw dropped in disbelief.

Its—_his—_body had been so abused, he couldn't decipher the skin tone. Mottled green and yellow and something viscous and black covered him, nearly head-to-toe. It was strapped in, at the ankles, at the wrists, at the _neck. _Jim made an involuntary choking noise when he saw its _hands—_swollen, covered in what had to be _blood_—

"Bones," he whispered, stepping closer to look at the alien's face. "What—"

Its eyes were open. Huge and brown, they shifted, flicking from Bones to Jim and back, before settling upon Jim's face. Jim closed his mouth, and his eyebrows drew together and up.

"Bones," he whispered again, "What are we going to do?"

Bones' voice was hushed as he replied, "We're going to save him."

Jim nodded once, and stepped closer to the table. The alien cringed, as if to make itself smaller. Jim froze, waited until it opened its eyes again, before taking a deliberate step forward, not breaking eye contact; the alien watched him warily, but did not move.

"Bones," Jim muttered, "Come up where he can see you—good—now, when I count to three, undo the strap at his neck, then you back the hell up. Understood?"

Bones blinked, surprised at the command, but nodded. "Yeah. Understood."

"Good," Jim said quietly, "Get ready. One… two… _three!"_

Bones immediately reached to the strap, and clicked the buckle open. The alien flinched, and a cry was torn from its lips, short and harsh; it sucked in a breath, and visibly reigned itself in.

Jim reached out before thinking, and touched the alien's bare arm. "It's okay, it's _okay_, we're here to _help!_"

The alien went completely rigid, and stared at Jim in something akin to wonder.

.~*~.

Spock did not expect the creature with the dark eyes and deep voice to return, and certainly not so soon.

When it returned, accompanied by _another_ unmasked creature—this one with a brighter, softer skin tone and strangely light hair—Spock felt something akin to apprehension, and suspiciously like _hope._

The fair creature spoke to the darker one, and its steady, certain tone calmed him.

And then the dark creature had reached for his neck. Spock recoiled, remembering the _last _time one of these creatures had touched his neck, the pressure on his windpipe, how he'd gasped and strained for more of this strange, thick air—

But as soon as they'd appeared, the hands were gone. Spock remembered to breathe, and did so, reminding himself that _fear is an emotion…_

The fair creature was speaking again, its voice soft, oddly gentle. Spock rolled his eyes toward that voice, wanting to properly view the creature's face…

As he did so, he felt something warm and soft on his skin. He had a moment to register that this alien creature was _touching _him, before—

_Reassurance, revulsion, pity pity pity, anger, pity, determination_

The alien retracted his arm, and the emotional transference cut off. Spock stared at him—for it was certainly a _him_, the timbre of his mind distinctly _male—_and felt hope.

_He wants to help,_ Spock realized. _He is determined. He will _help.

The alien said something else; the other responded, and Spock hissed as the strap over his right wrist loosened, followed in quick succession by those over each ankle. He closed his eyes, focused on controlling his breathing as his blood rushed to his hands and feet. He felt a warm hand brush against his arm again—_pity, reassurance, determination—_and the final strap, over his left wrist, was released.

Spock lay there for a moment, fingers and toes twitching. They were certainly injured, but functional. Spock allowed the relief to rush over him. Slowly—so slowly—he began to push himself to a seated position.

Both aliens started forward, and Spock froze, expecting for one sickening moment to be pushed back down—perhaps this was a new form of torture, a new way to break him—

The gentle hands at his back brought his thoughts to a halt. These aliens were so _warm_, such relief against the cold of the room; he shivered involuntarily, and mentally chastised himself for it, before—

-_Determination, pity, reassurance, reassurance, protectiveness…_

_-Revulsion, guilt, reassurance, determination…_

The emotions of the two aliens were like a flood into his mind, a warm, soft wave over his torment. Spock relaxed, and continued to sit up, move forward. One hand left his back—the dark-eyed alien, he thought—and trailed it along his body. Spock froze again, just for an instant, before realizing that this was a measure of reassurance, a way for him to know where the hand was going.

It settled on one calf, and the other hand went to its opposite. Spock's legs were nudged, gently, to his left; he understood it as a question—_can you move?_—so he shifted. The alien kept a hold of his legs, and helped lower them, gently, to the ground, and he allowed a flicker of elation to rush over him, briefly.

Spock, for the first time in weeks, was _standing_.

.~*~.

"Bones," Jim whispered, still supporting the alien across his back. His voice gave out, and he shook his head.

"I know, Jim," Bones muttered back. He checked his watch. "Jim, it's almost three-thirty. New shift's starting soon."

"We need to get him out," Jim finished the thought. Bones nodded. "Then let's do it."

"Jim, where are we—"

"Get him out first," Jim barked. The alien jumped, and he lowered his voice. "And then we'll figure it out. Just… _Jesus…_" Bones nodded, and moved to the alien's side, opposite Jim.

Jim watched as Bones crossed his arm under the alien's, and across his back, to rest over Jim's.

"You ready?" Jim nodded, compulsively licking his lip. "Then let's get the hell out of here."

.~*~.

"How long," Jim asked, "Do you think it will take them to realize he's gone?"

McCoy turned to look at him. Jim was in the back seat with the alien—they had intended to allow him the back, to sleep, but he seemed a little more relaxed with Jim within arm's reach. McCoy assumed it was a defensive measure, but allowed it.

"I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe two hours."

"So what are we going to do?"

"I don't _know,_" he snapped. The alien twitched, and Jim frowned at Bones. He softened. "He's taken a liking to you, I think."

Jim was silent for a moment. "I could… I mean, I don't know what I'd tell Gaila, but…"

"Jim. You want to keep an alien _in your house_?"

"What _else_ can I do, Bones?" Jim glowered at him. "You have Joanna every weekend. I've just got Gaila, and I can… I can break that off, it's not serious anyway, and…" his voice trailed off. "It's not like we can take him to a hospital, Bones." McCoy sighed.

"Jim. Are you _certain_? Because this isn't, you know, a _pet_, it's a… it's a person, sort of, and you'll need to teach him to understand you, and feed him, and—"

"And potty train him, and teach him to write his name." Jim smirked at him for a moment, before becoming serious once again. "I know, Bones. But it's—this is an _incredible _thing. I just… I want him safe, you know?" And McCoy did know. He knew Jim, knew how fiercely he protected those he loved, knew how strong the kid's sense of justice had always been. He sighed.

"Call that girl, and make sure she's out of your house."

.~*~.

By the time Jim got home, Gaila was gone. He'd given her a story about one of his superiors visiting later, about not being able to have guests over. She'd been pissed about her 4:00 AM dismissal, but had been tremendously understanding.

Jim squashed the tendril of guilt, and looked over at the alien from his own perch on the kitchen counter.

He had, Jim decided, come from a civilization not at all different from his own. After showing the alien to the bathroom, he had figured out the shower alarmingly quickly, and had donned Jim's bathrobe without a problem.

He now lay, possibly asleep, across Jim's couch, under several layers of thick blankets.

Jim frowned as he watched him, sipped his coffee, and wondered what had _happened. _ How had this intelligent, probably very young creature ended up in a _laboratory _in _New Mexico? _How had he ended up _in Jim's home_?

The alien shifted, burrowed into the blankets a bit, and gave a soft, wheezing sigh. Jim sighed, too, with a resigned grin. He got up, walked back to the coffee pot, and refilled his mug.

.~*~.

**A/N: This was incredibly fun to write! Please, please review! :)**


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